


Lost in the Myre

by Laetitia_Laetitii



Series: Aileen Westbrook [4]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Adventure, Gen, In Search of the Myreque, Morytania, The Myreque, Vampyres, questfic, vyres
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetitia_Laetitii/pseuds/Laetitia_Laetitii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on In Search of the Myreque. However, it is not a scene-by-scene retelling of the quest, and I’ve altered the events here and there for dramatic effect, or wherever the in-game story sounded implausible.</p><p>Following the events of Priest in Peril, not-yet-World-Guardian Aileen arrives in Morytania. In a local inn she meets a mysterious stranger, who enlists her help in contacting those who hide in the Myre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a fixed scale for the in-game distances. Since trying to make sense of the proportions of Gielinor is more or less impossible, I simply go for what works for the story.

_Having departed Aubury’s service for now, I have accepted an assignment from another master. It seems reasonably simple — I’m meant to journey across the uninhabited zone against the Morytanian border and make contact with the guardian of the temple on the River Salve. Though the work itself sounds neither glamorous nor complicated, the prospect of travel excites my fancy._

_The temple, Paterdomus, serves as the only crossing point on the river, and the priest who is its sole inhabitant is meant to report to the city once a week using a teleported missive. Apparently no messages have been delivered for almost a month, and though the spells and blessings that keep the border safe remain in place, something is clearly amiss._

_I know a few people over at the Varrock Palace, one of them being the official tasked with dispatching a scout. As he had none to spare at the moment, he decided to subcontract me instead. It should be a relatively easy mission, and it will provide me with a much needed break from the monotony of rune-running._

 

_***_

 

    It is ten days since I left Varrock.

    What I believed would be a fairly straightforward assignment has proved to be anything but — or rather, I have allowed it to turn to anything but. I will not repeat here the details of what transpired at the temple, but only what came afterwards — in short, the border is safe, the temple is safe, and Father Drezel is safe and communicating with Varrock once more.

    I am not.

    As a thanks for my assistance, Drezel granted me the right to cross the border, as well as certain artefacts to protect myself with once on the other side. Though at perfect liberty to return to Varrock, I chose to make good of his gifts right away. Nominally, the purpose of my trip is to have a look at the vicinity of the temple and report any further suspicious activity, but I admit I am motivated by curiosity as much as by duty.

    Consequently, I’m now staying in one of the five unnumbered rooms of the Hair of the Dog Tavern, the only inn in the town of Canifis in northern Morytania. The villagers seem wary rather than hostile, and though the lock on the door looks sturdy enough, this will be my second night of sleeping with my boots on, dagger at hand. I have brought no runestones with me, as at the time of my departure I deemed such an investment unnecessary.

    I had thought the restlessness would fade. I had thought that after all these years, and after the events that drove me out of Kandarin I would have learned to stay safe, for my own sake as well as that of others’. Yet when the passageway to the forbidden land opened in front of me, I could not remember all my good reasons to stay in Misthalin, nor the pious promises I had made to myself out of sheer fright. I wanted to go.

     I have spent nearly two years in Varrock, and but for the few summer months I worked at the digsite and a few other forays into equally irregular fields, I have lived at Mrs Whitby’s boarding house in the south-east quarter of the city and made my living  as a rune-runner for Wizard Aubury. It is not unpleasant work — I buy as much rune essence from him as I can carry, journey to one of the area’s three Altars (Air to the south-west, Earth to the east, or should I feel adventurous or be in dire need of money, the Chaos Altar in the Wilderness), and craft my purchase into runestones. After a rest I head back to where I started, and sell back the final product for a profit. I enjoy my walks. I find the crafting process fascinating. If I spend two days out in the field (and that is how long it takes for the shorter trips), I can live comfortably for at least seven.

    But it isn’t enough, no more than it was when I practised the same craft under Cromperty in Ardougne. Though I would not admit it to myself, I have been looking for a way out. I found one and took it, with little regard for what would become of it.

   Even as I pushed up the old trapdoor and climbed onto Morytanian soil and took in my first impressions of a sickly, sour odour in the air, of malformed trees on the riverbank and the cries and screeches of unseen things flying between them, I felt a strange sense of exhilaration. I would not be sleeping at Mrs Whitby’s. I would not know what the next morning brought. I would be going forward, away, and the past would become a little more distant once more, if only briefly.

    Behind me was Misthalin, Varrock, and the temple overlooking the river. Around me were deep shadows, and foreign sounds and smells in the cool night air. In front of me a winding path disappeared into the dark. Somewhere far off, a firelight burned in the night. I bent down to close the hatch that lead back to safety, hearing the satisfying click of a lock inside. I shouldered my backpack, picked up my staff, and walked into the mist. 


	2. Canifis

 

    The journey through the night was uneventful, but hardly without excitement. The trail seemed to disappear and reappear at will, and from time to time I had the sense of being followed. Around the overgrown track twisted trees curled their moss-weighed branches and will-o’-the-wisps reflected from muddy ponds. What I hoped was night-birds screamed. There was no moon, and no stars.

    Eventually, what had first been a faint flicker in the distance became several torches flanking the path.  At a point where the soil turned particularly muddy someone had made an attempt at laying stepping stones. A signpost stood aslant at a crossroads soon after that, though too rotten to read. The fires burned brighter.

   After a few hours’ walk (the ground now sported fresh footprints) I came upon what seemed like a natural moat —a chain of ponds forming a rough circle —and inside them, a group of houses made of greenish wood, standing on stilts and shingle-roofed, all huddled together as if for protection. Drezel had mentioned the nearby town of Canifis and had told me to that I could enter it safely as long as I had the artefacts he had given me, but that I should leave at the slightest  sign of unrest.

  Lights blazed in the unglazed windows, and I could catch both a whiff of cooking and sounds of speech and laughter in strange accents. I followed the brightest light and the loudest sounds, and found myself in front of a two-storey building with a balcony opening on what appeared to be the town square. Over the open door swung an indecipherable sign, but the noise combined with the smell of beer and boiling vegetables spoke of an inn.

    I stood for a spell outside the open door, listening to the voices from within, and suddenly realized how hungry I was. Inhospitable or no, I had yet to meet an innkeeper who would turn down gold. Furthermore, If I was to sleep indoors tonight, this was my only choice. In the morning I could have a further look around, and if I found no leads about the breach, I would return to Paterdomus.

   I walked in.

***

    As I stepped over the threshold, I can’t say that a silence fell.  But as I passed by the tables I felt eyes on me, and my ears caught a peculiar sound, as if many noses were suddenly sniffing. I acted as naturally as I could, trying to seem neither fearful nor arrogant, and yet all the time I knew something was terribly wrong.

    Men in tunics and trousers of coarse, homespun wool occupied the stools, with tankards and spittle-jars taking up the tables. A few women in long gowns of equally rough make stood beside the walls, nursing their drinks in their hands. Behind the long bar, a grey-haired man stood framed against a background of beer barrels and dusty old bottles on shelves, surveying what he ruled.

    As I walked up to the bar, I felt ever so grateful for my long cloak and the way it covered up my clothes. Staff in hand and mist-soaked hood covering my hair, I apparently passed for a Morytanian as the bartender greeted me in their strange dialect and asked if I had come from the east. Doing my best to ape the way he pronounced the Common Tongue, I managed to ensure him that I had indeed (whatever that meant), and that I was after a meal and a room for a few nights.  He inspected my gold carefully but accepted it without question, and shortly I was guided to a solitary table and treated to a meal of watery beer and a kind of cabbage stew with a vaguely gamey taste in the meat. Once I was done eating, the barman escorted me upstairs to a room, and having bade me goodnight, left me as I am now.

     There is little to say of yesterday save for that I slept poorly, and that the feeling of something being off about the place persists. I spoke to a few people, none of whom showed any curiosity in me. I made some purchases in the local general store, ostensibly for my journey home. While he wrapped up the goods I bantered a bit with the storekeeper, but got little out of him that was of use for me. He grumbled something about tithes, and told me to avoid the ruins north-west of the city. He mentioned them predating the rulers, and that nothing good had ever come out of them. Daring not to ask further questions, I thanked him for the advice.

  So far, I feel I am relatively safe. Morytania is a vast country, and bar for the city I’ve heard being referred to alternately as either Meiyerditch or Darkmeyer, it is sparsely populated. Both people and news travel slowly here, and no-one has in any way let on that my ignorance of local affairs is unexpected or a cause for suspicion. I have never been asked where exactly I come from, but apparently there are several settlements out to the east, any of which I might cite as my home if pressed.

    I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for my discomfort. It is not the climate, unpleasant as it is. It is not the isolation and poverty of Canifis, both of which I have seen plenty in my travels. It is not even the strange smell of wet dog that seems to hang in the air everywhere, including this small room with the whitewashed walls and the scratchy sheets that never feel quite dry. At all times there is something about the people —something in the way they stare and then suddenly look away, the way they huddle together at their tables downstairs, glancing around periodically, and how everyone seems to walk close to the walls and avoid the outside as much as possible…they are expecting something. They are afraid of something. And though I know little (alarmingly little, foolishly little) of this secluded country, I have a feeling their fear has to do with those they call the rulers.

 Darkness has fallen once more (though I could hardly call the dimly lit phase in between a day) and I shall venture downstairs once more. See what’s for dinner.


	3. Vanstrom

    Having finished a meal of potatoes and what may or may not have been rabbit, I nursed my yeasty beer for a while, scouting around for someone to talk to. My eyes passed many faces, most of which looked quickly away, until they settled on the level gaze of a lone man sitting on a chair behind the staircase. He sat very still, his face mostly concealed by the hood of his cloak, but what I could see did not appear unfriendly. We nodded in greeting, and as my table was reasonably close to his seat, rather than getting up, I turned around in my chair to face him.

    After exchanging greetings, I relayed my cover story —that I had journeyed to Canifis from the east, and that I needed to purchase certain goods unavailable in my own village. This seemed to satisfy my interlocutor, a man with oddly pale eyes and a soft, low voice. Having heard my case he gave me his own, though in an indirect way. He implied, in very vague terms, that he was troubled by the situation of a friend of his, and though he never said so, it sounded dire. Whatever it was, I felt I could always use a friend in those parts, and in my experience helping those in need is the best way one has of making allies. Reasoning thus, I gently inquired about his friends and the nature of their troubles.

    He continued to answer first in his ambiguous way, referring to what seemed to be almost folk-tales, but then slowly turned into an account of a group of human vigilantes resisting the rulers of Morytania on the behalf of their race. It was not very clear, but it implied great and fascinating things, and as much as the shadow of a thing can make one interested in what casts it, the story made me feel a pull towards its subject. I drew my chair closer, and leaning towards the pale-eyed stranger, listened.

    Though he only referred to his friends in the most undefined ways, of one thing he was certain —the group he spoke of were the only hope the humans of Morytania had against the tyrants. Of course with the situation they were in, they constantly needed resources —weapons, ammo, medicine. Right now there was a certain package that he was supposed to bring them, yet for some unutterable reason he could not deliver it.  From the way his face went as he spoke all this, he looked both fearful and ashamed, as if terrified of both being found out or failing.

  Everything seemed quiet at the border, and I was in no hurry to report back. Besides, here I had the chance to both make an ally in enemy lands and aid my race. Tentatively, I told him that I might be able to help, and introduced myself. Fearing that my name and its soft consonants might sound too obviously western, I opted for the Fremennik pronunciation: Ailin Vestbrok. He never showed in any way that it might be unusual —instead, a kind of relief spread over his face as he clasped my hand with his own, and introduced himself in return: Mr Vanstrom Klause.

    He then continued to explain, now in a more agitated manner, that all he needed was for the package to be taken to these friends of his as soon as possible, with aid being available from a local boatman. He added that for one accustomed to travelling in the eastern woods, the journey should pose few problems. I made the decision then, with as little consideration as ever, and told him that if he brought me the goods in the morning, I would deliver it. I recall making some boast about having done similar work before, which was not entirely unfounded.

    Not at all. And still in that moment I was just drunk enough on bad beer and excitement to forget another such occasion, almost identical, in another inn long ago. Shaking his hand again upon departure, I retired back to my room. I slept better than the previous night, certain in the knowledge that things were beginning to work out once more.


	4. Mort Myre

    At dawn I met Vanstrom in the deserted bar and collected my delivery. As I stuffed the heavy, tightly bound package in my backpack, he repeated his last night’s advice: The Myreque, “those hidden in the Myre” dwelled somewhere in the swamp, and there was little time to waste in getting the supplies to them. Once across the marshland, the boatman in the village of Mort’ton could help me locate them. Though outlaws, he told me, the Myreque had many sympathizers among the common people who revered them as heroes, but I should still never indicate any kind of connection between myself and them. Furthermore, I was to avoid other travellers, and should never mention Vanstrom’s name to anyone, including the boatman. The rulers of Morytania dealt mercilessly with their opponents, he said, and were skilful in hunting them down. While he spoke, a strange look crossed his face, and for a moment I wondered if he was thinking of someone. Then Vanstrom seemed to gather himself, and said that it was better that I left while the rest of the village was still asleep. When I slipped out, I heard him whisper a blessing, though he did not specify the god who would grant it.

     As I passed through the empty town square, certainty filled me once more.  I knew I was adequately provisioned for the journey, having previously stocked up on bread and salted meat at the general store. Runecrafting excursions to the Wilderness had taught me to carry the essentials and to improvise when needed, and thus while I had kitted myself for considerably easier terrain, I was not ill-equipped. Breathing in the crisp morning air, I turned to see a faint stripe of silver glow over the eastern horizon, and a kind of wild joy filled me. I had played the same game with the monks at Ourania and the Ardougne Mourners, and had always come out on top, always survived. Another country or no, this would be no different.

     I left the village by the same path I had arrived. Approximately halfway back to the river I turned south, and soon came to the edge of Mort Myre, a trackless expanse of marshland that even the people of Canifis seemed to fear. For what it was worth, someone had long ago gone to the trouble of erecting an iron railing, now heavily corroded, at its border. What it was designed to keep in or out I didn’t know, but the rusty metal didn’t seem as if it could have stopped anything stronger than a ghost. I continued along the railing for a while more, until I came to a gate.

    If Vanstrom had wanted me to pass unnoticed, he had directed me on the right course. The hinges did not look like they would ever budge again, and the bottom of the gate was sunk so deep into the turf I wondered if I could get it open without breaking anything. On this side, a handful of mildewed headstones marked an abandoned graveyard. Beyond the fence, the sloping ground disappeared into the mist. Above the treetops to the west, I could glimpse the silhouette of Paterdomus perched on a precipice.

    I could have been in Misthalin in a matter of hours. I could have been back in Varrock in two days. _Tell Drezel where you are going_. The thought hung in the air for a bit, and then evaporated. The old monk was terrified of Morytania, and might prevent me from returning. I had accepted a task and had a promise to keep, and I could not risk being detained. Moreover, something about Vanstrom’s story made me feel drawn towards the mysterious people who hid in the swamp. Somewhere in the mist, someone was waiting for me.

    After a few attempts, I managed to push the rusty but unlocked gate open, and stepped into Mort Myre.

    Almost as I pushed shut the gate behind me, the sounds of birdsong and wind seemed to fade away. I found myself in a world that was darker and damper than ever, and something about the shadows and the haze made it all seem slightly unreal. What little sunlight could reach it showed a landscape so bleak that might as well have remained unseen: a desolate mire stretching as far as the eye could see, its colour more grey and yellow than green. Between the moss-covered mounds the ground sunk into stagnant pools, their edges sprouting bulrushes that came up to my waist. Dead and dying trees choked by vines grew about and among the monstrous ferns ancient logs rotted under the weight of glistening mushrooms.

    The overall impression was one of disease and decay, unwholesome and unnatural. The mist muffled further sounds, but all around me, I could hear things scuttle and slither in the undergrowth. And though I knew that none of the creatures rustling the leaves was large enough to have a mind, I again felt as if I was being watched.

    In the absence of a trail, Vanstrom had told me to use the river as my compass. I was to always keep it within hearing distance, but never venture on the open bank which was often patrolled. Mort’ton was a three days’ walk away, and by keeping close to the river I could not lose the way. Reflecting on his words, I set out for the south.

    I have no idea for how long I walked. For every mile I proceeded, it seemed I had to backtrack a half, navigating between ponds and thickets and patches of sinking mud. There was nothing to use for a landmark in the putrid waste, and only the distant sound of running water gave me any idea of direction. I travelled slowly, using my staff to prod at the ground where it looked deceptive, and repeatedly correcting my course whenever I strayed too far from the Salve. It did not take long for the humidity to eat its way through my clothes, and the wet wool of my cloak weighed me down. My boots —good Fremennik make —held on the longest but not interminably, and presently my toes began to lose their sensation. I had bought a bundle of kindling at Canifis, but by now I wondered vaguely if I would find here anything dry enough to make a fire for the night. And somewhere at the edge of my perception the feeling of not being alone remained. Though I could hear no footsteps, I thought I was not only being watched, but followed and stalked by something that moved as I moved and became still as I stopped. Cold, soaked to the skin and barely able to stay on course, I kept pushing on.

    The day was already turning into evening when I stumbled upon the campsite. I found the clearing in the thickets by pure chance, when while glancing over my shoulder for a sight of white water, I instead spotted a gap between the giant ferns. Some of the leaves around it had snagged and a trail of bootprints filled with water disappeared into the bushes. I had not seen a single indicator of a human presence in the Myre, and my curiosity was instantly aroused. Following the tracks I pushed through the ferns, and soon found myself in a secluded glade with reasonably solid ground underfoot and a wall of bushes rising around it. In its centre inside a ring of stones lay the long-cold remains of a fire. The turf around it was trodden, and half-buried in the ashes were the charred bones of some small animal. Though now deserted, the spot felt safer for having served others before me, and I decided to rest a while. I would eat, and then see whether I’d sleep there or continue walking until nightfall. Unshouldering my backpack, I dug out the kindling and tinderbox, and with the aid of a few branches from a dead thornbush, I had a fire burning surprisingly soon. It was weak, but its flames returned the feeling to my fingers. I filled up my old copper kettle with water from a small stream, and perched it between two stones in the fire pit. Soon the smell of boiling herbs filled the air, and in that forsaken place it comforted me.

    I sat down on a rock and watched steam rise from the kettle, too tired to care for much beyond the thought of dinner and a sleep. The persistent chirping of the crickets made me drowsy, and for a minute or two I closed my eyes.  I was almost unconscious when the sound of a branch cracking in the bushes startled me. I looked up, and it was then that I saw the thing. I had no idea how long it had been there, but now the light hit from just the right angle to make it visible as it hung in the air beyond the fire. It was something shadowy and incorporeal, and vaguely humanoid in form. There was a hint of extended arms, long, limp fingers and a slack mouth hanging open. It floated on spot, unseeing eye sockets turned towards me as if expecting something, and unable to even tell if the apparition was even real or not, all I could do was to stare back. It seemed to tense for a second, and then struck, surging through the flames. For a moment my vision turned a hazy green, and I felt as if cold, soft fingers were squeezing my throat. As I gasped for breath, the stench of an open grave filled my nose, and all strength left my limbs.

    And as suddenly, the things was gone. I was lying flat on the ground, gulping for air, and could hear nothing but the rapid thumping of my own heart. I sat up and looked around, but could find no trace of the creature. Whatever it was, it had flown through the fire without disturbing it, and passed right through me. Underneath the rush of adrenalin I felt weak and nauseated.  I had never moved or uttered a sound during what happened (How long had the whole event taken? Ten seconds or five?), and for a while, all I could do was stare ahead in shock. As I did, I could pick out in the firelight something else I had missed upon my arrival: near a log at the edge of the circle was a long mound, and though my brain refused to name it, there was a terrible suggestion in its outline. My legs buckled underneath me as I got up and crossed over to it. From above there was no mistaking the shape, but I had to be sure. I reached out, and with a brush of my hand, pushed the moss aside.

    The man had been resting his head against the log when he died. His skull was picked clean, and further disturbing the vegetation revealed the remnants of leather clothes and a rusty knife at his belt. Something glinted at the corpse’s neck, and I reached into the remains to pick it up. It was a silver star of Saradomin, curiously unaffected though the string it had hung on had rotted into nothing long ago. There had been one set of tracks. Their maker had walked into the glade, and had never walked out. How his corpse had decayed so fast I couldn’t, or didn’t want to guess.

    I put that star back where I had found it, and pushed the turf over the cadaver as well as I could. Still trembling, I returned to my rock. Gradually, the worst of it passed and I found myself retching violently, dry-heaving on an empty stomach and shaking violently from head to toe. It was not just the shock of the attack and finding the corpse. I felt as if the thing had been inside me, and had taken something.

    Tiring as my walk had been, Mort Myre had lulled me into a false sense of security. Strange as I had thought Canifis, its inhabitants had not been openly hostile, and I had never truly felt I was in danger. Come to think of it, ever since I had sealed the abomination at Paterdomus in its coffin I had not been afraid, though clearly there was a reason to be so.  I had once more acted brashly, unwisely, and without the faintest trace of self-preservation. I knew nothing about Morytania, and had thrown myself into it headlong.

    Somewhere in my musings I regained my wits enough to remove the kettle from the fire. I took out of my backpack a tin cup, a knife and the package containing my food. My stomach had settled sufficiently to think about eating, and as my senses returned, I realized how hungry I was.

    When I opened up the food package, I saw what the thing had done. I had bought that morning two loaves of fresh dark bread and a pound of salted fatback. I had wrapped them up myself, and placed them inside a leather pouch to keep the damp away.  Now on the open cloth there were two soggy, grey piles of what looked like rotten dough, and a lump of mostly green meat giving off a hellish stench.

    Whatever my visitor had been, it had done short work of my rations. Having ascertained that none of it was edible, I rewrapped the package, and threw it into the bushes. Fishing around my backpack produced an emergency stash —a pouch of oats —and I have rarely been as relieved as when I found them in passable condition. However, it was plain to see that there was hardly enough for two days. I could get back to Paterdomus on it, or I could try and make it to Mort’ton, but that night there was nothing to do. I poured my tea into the tin cup, and set another kettleful of water for gruel. I ate my meagre meal in silence, looking around for movement, and the flickering light turned the tree branches into long, limp fingers and the hollow log-ends into open maws.

    Though I feared that the thing might return, at the end I decided to sleep at the campsite. It was, I thought, as safe a place as any, and at least the ground was dry. I spread my bedroll on the turf, and stoked the fire for the last time. Despite my persisting hunger, despite the cold and the lingering horror, I felt my eyelids soon grow heavy. Outside the circle of light tiny feet scurried and insects chirped, and tearing sounds from the thicket signalled that something had found use for my castoffs. Before the fire burned down, darkness overtook me.

    (I was briefly awake during the night. I am quite certain of that. But if it was not a dream, I don’t know what great birds circled in the sky and flapped their heavy wings, or why the last of the embers briefly looked so much like a pair of glowing red eyes.)

    I woke up in the morning wet, hungry, and freezing, but untouched. My fire was gone, and unable to start another one, I ended up breaking my fast with oats soaked in cold water. To alleviate the worst of the pangs I drank plentifully, and finally chewed on a wad of dried herbs meant for tea. Sitting on my log, limbs stiff and aching with the cold, I reflected on my situation.

   I could have turned back, and tried to make it to Paterdomus. I had covered, if Vanstrom’s advice was true, one third of the way to Mort’ton. Two more days like this on three or four meals like this would get me to the village. I could do it. I had been to worse. I needed to get out of Mort Myre, and I might as well carry out the task I had accepted. As somewhere beyond the eternal mist the sun climbed higher on the sky, I pushed the wad of harralander between cheek and gum, and set on the road once more.

    The following day passed as the previous had, save for that I was colder and hungrier.

    On the morning of the third day I woke up in a clearing near the river bank, and ate my last oats. I could, I knew it, reach Mort’ton. When I shouldered my now light backpack once more, stomach more full of boiled pond water than anything else, I knew I had no other option.

    For a while I believed it to be sheer stubborn optimism, then I blamed it on the hunger, but eventually I had no choice but to admit it: I was travelling uphill ever so slightly, and with every step the soil seemed drier and more solid.  It was well past midday when I realized that the fog around me had thinned to a vapour. Turning around, I saw behind me a plain of thick, white mist. Out of it, right to the east of where I had resurfaced, the top of a tall, gnarled tree rose through, like great claws reaching after me. But I was out of their range, and walked on firm ground once more. I turned my back to the swamp, and headed on.

    Shortly, I came upon my first sign of human presence since the abandoned campsite: a bridge lead over a muddy watercourse, and beyond it spread a thicket of reeds and weeds as tall as a man, shot through with what seemed like a path that until recently had seen frequent use. It looked almost like a maze, with many forks and turns, and for a moment I hesitated to enter. The high growth blocked my vision on both sides, and so I took direction from the rush of the river. —Vanstrom had mentioned Mort’ton being situated south-east from the edge of the swamp and that meant I would follow the Salve for a while, and then turn inland.

    I found it relatively easy to keep to my course. The paths seemed better maintained the further I walked, as if whoever used them avoided venturing to the outer regions. Here and there stuck to the ground were expired standing-torches, and once I passed the remains of a campfire with what looked like crushed snail shells scattered around it.

    It was close to nightfall once again and I was lightheaded with hunger, when I reached a natural moat like the one that surrounded Canifis. And like in Canifis (only a few days ago, but my feet had been dry and my stomach full), distant fires burned in the dark. Across the stream I could glimpse houses, and the silhouette of a boulder shaped like a beehive. It did not matter that I could not read the nearby crude wooden sign, because that landmark told me right where I was. With a few steps I crossed the bridge over the creek, and I was in Mort’ton.


	5. Mort'ton

    In time, I found myself standing amid a group of haphazardly scattered cottages. Not one had two storeys, and with their stone walls and thatched roofs they made Canifis look advanced. The windows were all tightly shuttered, and though smoke rose from a few chimneys, I could hear no sounds. In some the roofs had caved in, and I passed by at least one charred wreck. In the quickly deepening dark only one light burned, far on the other side of the village, and I followed it until I found myself on a riverbank. This was not the rushing Salve, but a murky, meandering body of water with a slow flow to it, a swamp river if I ever saw one. A single standing torch illuminated a decayed bridge over the water, but nothing beyond. Near my end of it floated a small rowboat tied to a tree, and on a crate beside the tree sat a boatman.

    He wore long robes of the same coarse wool I had seen up north, and in the corner of his bearded mouth smouldered a pipe. How old he was I could not tell, as the hard life of Morytania seemed to age people before their time. I was some ten paces away when he looked up and cried out a greeting. Though his accent was even heavier than that of the people of Canifis, I could tell that he asked my name and business. Coming face to face with him, I presented myself.

        “Hello, friend,” I called. “My name is Aileen Westbrook, and I have come a long way to deliver a package.”

    “A package to whom, stranger,” he asked.

    “A package to friends in the Myre,” I replied, keeping my voice down. Upon hearing this, the boatman froze. He did not say a word or move, but only looked at me, eyes wide with horror. I crossed over to him in a few strides, and sat down on another crate. “Be at peace,” I said quietly. “I mean no ill towards you or those I’m trying to reach. I am a foreigner to these parts as you can hear from my speech, but I come as a friend. The man who tasked me told me that I could ask you for help, and that is what I do. Please, take me where I need to go, and I’ll pay you, and then be on my way.”

    The boatman remained silent for a while, but from his expression I could tell he was afraid. I knew what he was, but he did not know me. At last he spoke again in short, sharp barks, angry and frightened.

   “Yes, you are a foreigner and I can well hear that. Yet you come to me, asking me to take you to the swamp, to risk my life for you and those out there. Such boldness —I survive day by day in this accursed village, fearing the patrols and the tithings, and you ask me to do this for what? A payment? Young lady, there is no such payment that will make me do it, not for you and not for them.” Then he cast his eyes down, and spoke no more.  I considered his words, and I decided to resort to another approach.

    “You know where they are,” I said (no response) “and that is all I ask. Tell me where to go, and I’ll not bother you anymore.”

    He remained quiet, and while still looking at the ground, he launched on a kind of monologue:

   “You’ll not bother me, you’ll not bother me, you say, but they will. What if they know? I’ve seen enough, I’ve been through enough, and whatever you think you know, you don’t, you don’t…”

    By then, I could see that he was close to breaking. The only thing he wanted in the world was for me to go away, and once I had come that far, I was not going to back down to ease his discomfort.

   “Tell me and I’ll go,” I repeated, slow and clear. He looked at the ground, dejected, and finally seemed to reach a conclusion.

    “I tell you where,” he told the turf. “I tell you where and you can borrow my boat for that is the shortest way.” I did not answer, but allowed him to talk. “Can you row? Yes? Good. Then it is simple. Row up the stream until you come to a bend. There tie the boat, and carry on north until you find a strange-looking tree on a mound. That is all.” I waited, but the boatman spoke no more.

     “Thank you,” I answered at last. “That is all I ask but for one thing, and that is a less complicated one: I travel alone, and I am all out of food. Can you tell me where I might replenish myself before I go?”

    At that, he seemed to snap out of his sulk. He rose his gaze, and appraised me for a moment before reaching a conclusion.

“Don’t go tonight,” he said finally. “It’s dark already, and the Myre is no place to be after sundown, if at all. Since I can’t talk you out of your intention, please rest at my house, and I’ll feed you.”

    And with those welcome words, he got up from his crate and emptied his exhausted pipe. He picked up a walking staff from the ground, and motioning at me to follow, headed towards the nearest cottage.

 


	6. Cyreg Paddlehorn

    After three days out in the swamp, it felt miraculous to be in a warm, dry house. As my host bolted first the door behind me and then the only window, I took in my surroundings. A single, small room with stone walls and a reed roof, a timber floor, and few furnishings. In one corner was a straw mattress doing the office of a bed. Charred logs smouldered in an iron brazier. As the boatman lit an oil lantern, I could soon see more: In the corner opposite the bed was a table and a stool, and on the table were scattered a carpenter’s tools. On the walls hung more implements, alongside with coils of rope and snare, and on the floor were laid what looked like a pair of unfinished oars.

    “Sit down, please,” he said, “and rest. You have come a long way, and you should warm yourself and dry your belongings”. As he spoke, the boatman had stoked the brazier from a pile of firewood, and currently the flames started up once more. “Wait here,” he said, “and make use of the fire while I fetch us something to eat”. A bit of cold night air sneaked in as he slipped out, but once the door shut behind him, I was left alone in darkness and warmth.

    For a moment I simply sat still, relishing the feeling of being indoors. Then, resenting having to move, I got up and began to undress. I used the hooks on the walls to hang up my bedroll and cloak, followed by tunic and trousers, and finally boots and foot rags. I took out the only change of clothes I’d brought from my backpack, and damp though they were, they smelled fresh compared to the ones I had worn throughout the long walk across the Myre.  I found a water bucket under the table, and used a cupful of it to wash my face and hands. Once decent, I sat back down on the floor to warm my hands. The house smelled of woodsmoke and tar, lamp oil and timber. It was not a bad smell, and presently I found myself feeling strangely safe and terribly tired.

    I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew was another blast of cool air hitting my face as the boatman crept back in and bolted the door once more.  Without a word he took a cast-iron pan from the wall (where it hung between a saucepan and a copper kettle much like my own), and placed it on the brazier. As I watched, he laid on the floor a cloth bundle, and began to sort out its contents. First, he produced what looked like giant snails with spiralled shells. He cracked them against the frying pan as if they were eggs, and used a knife to scrape the meat out of the shells. Fat and water hissed and spat as the oily snailmeat hit hot iron, and soon a strange smell filled the cabin. Next he produced a few mushrooms, which he quickly chopped up and threw into the pan with the meat, followed by what looked like some wild herbs. As the meal cooked, he took from a vat under the table two wooden bowls and two tin forks. Satisfied that everything was done, he then ladled us a portion each. He handed me my bowl with a nod, and we sat down to eat.

    The meal passed in silence, if only because I was too hungry to talk. In my state I could have gladly eaten dirt, but as I neared the end of my dinner, I realized it was none too bad.  The snail was fatty but fresh, the mushrooms savoury, and whatever fault could be found in either was drowned out by the herbs. Having finished his own as well, the boatman returned the plates to the washing vat, and instead took out two wooden cups. He filled the copper kettle from the bucket and placed it on the fire. From his robes emerged two pouches of herbs —from one he crumbled a bit in each cup, from the other he refilled his pipe. Only when we both had a mug of steaming herbal tea in our hands and he had blown out the first smoke-ring, my host began to speak.

    “A foreigner from the west, and you seek those in the swamp,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what has brought you here to this forsaken place, nor what got you mixed up with them. If I lived as free as they say humans live in the lands west of the Salve, I would hardly come here, leave alone bother with the Myreque. Now tell me, Mistress Westbrook, what do you seek out in the Myre?”

    “Only what I told you, Mr—”

    “Cyreg Paddlehorn,” he completed the sentence. “I’m afraid we had no time for introductions on the riverbank, and at any rate food is always more pressing a matter than formalities. I am a boatman by trade, and I take people and things up and down the river. Mostly for my fellow villagers, but for those out in the swamp as well.”

    “Speaking of which,” I said, “Where are all the villagers? I could not see a soul on my way here.”

    “And that is hardly a wonder. Most of them are gone, run off to Burgh de Rott in the coast, or taken to Meiyerditch by the Watch. Of those who remain I am one of the few who venture outside after dark. There is no official curfew, but between the Watch, the occasional ghast and the chance of juvinates wandering in, most keep indoors after sundown.”

    “And you don’t?” I asked.

    “I don’t. I have ways to protect myself, and I keep my head down and stay out of trouble. What’s more, the vyres can hardly kill _all_ of us, because how would they then feed themselves?”

    I said nothing. The more the boatman spoke, the more questions I had. Both here and on the riverbank he had used many words I did not understand, and it was only then that I realized I could speak freely at last. I decided to start from the latest.

    “What is the watch?”

    “The Watch?” repeated Mr Paddlehorn, taking a swig of his tea. “I forget there might be a human in the world who does not know the blasted Watch. The Vyrewatch are the secret police of Drakan, the overlord who rules these lands. They guard the city of Darkmeyer and the Meiyerditch ghetto, they patrol the borders and thoroughfares and supervise the tithings. They know where you walk and they hear what you speak, and if you run afoul of them, they kill you after they kill your family.”

    I contemplated his words for a while. It was all starting to fall together now: What little Drezel had told me of the vampyres ruling Morytania, the fear of the villagers at Canifis and the reluctance of the Mort’tonians to leave their dwellings after dark. I recalled the creature I had slain in the basement of Draynor Manor, and thought of Dr Harlow’s words afterwards. _“It was terribly weakened of course, after all these years on this side of the river. In their usual state, none of our weapons could scarcely harm, leave alone kill them.”_ He had shuddered despite the midsummer heat, and had soon sunk to a fit of shivering and muttering from which only a stiff whiskey could wake him. Dr Harlow had spent some time in Morytania, and whatever he had seen here had reduced him to his current state. I had somehow failed to remember that as I left Paterdomus.

    Unable to think of a sensible response, I decided to go on with my mental list of mysteries:

    “What are the tithings everyone keeps talking about?” I asked. I had heard the word a few times, and always spoken with fear.

    Cyreg stared into the fire for a while, chewing on the stem of his pipe. Then he stuck it fast into the corner of his mouth, and used both hands to peel away the collar of his robes. In the dim light I could see something strange on his neck: a pair of small, fresh-looking scabs at the jugular, surrounded by older scars of equal size. Seeing how my eyes widened, he sat back against the wall and began to talk again:

    “The tithings are how the vampyres feed themselves. They gather blood from us the same way we milk goats.  They come once a week and take it, and if anyone is found too weak to give their share, they take it all at once. And nevertheless, I should consider myself lucky. Here in the village, we are out in the pasture, though like such animals, we sometimes fall prey to beasts. In Meiyerditch they are in pens, and though there are no beasts, there are slaughterhouses.” He said all this in a very quiet voice. Unlike Dr Harlow, he did not shudder, but from the look in his eyes I could tell that his thoughts were far away.

    The fire had almost gone out, and the last of the oil was burning in the lantern. My eyelids were heavy again, but I felt I had time enough for one more question.

    “Tell me about Drakan,” I said, and my voice sounded slurry to my own ears.

    “ _The_ Drakan? The count, as he calls himself, Lowerniel Verdigiyad, is the one who rules over these lands. It is said that all this, the Watch, the tithings, the Meiyerditch ghetto, were designed by him. No-one knows anything much about him, but that he’s said to reign from the castle at Darkmeyer, and that his kin rule beside him. It’s all to feed them and their kind, the vyrelords and -ladies…the rest of us are just cattle, humans and werewolves alike.”

    “Werewolves?” I repeated.

    “Yes, up in Canifis and all over the northern woods. One more reason to not to go there.”

    “Huh,” was all I could come up with. Drezel had been reluctant to explain things to me, perhaps to dissuade me from going. I could see now why I should have pressed him a bit more.

    I could have fallen asleep then and there, but decided against it. Leaving my host to his thoughts, I picked up our empty mugs and returned them to the washing vat. While Cyreg smoked his pipe, I used the last of the warm water to scrub the dishes clean.  

    Once done, I unbolted the door enough to throw the dirty water out of the door. After the warmth of the cottage, the outside air felt freezing on my face. It was pitch black, but for the second I stood on the doorstep I was aware of something large and heavy flying over the town, the beat of its leathery wings echoing in the night. As I stood there holding the washing vat, I suddenly understood what I was hearing, and what I had heard at the campsite. I backed back to indoors as fast as I could, slamming the door shut and driving the bolt home, much use that it was. My host never said a thing, but he must have heard the wingbeats, and understood perfectly well what had startled me.

    Without a word I took down my bedroll, now almost dry and smelling faintly of smoke and cooking snailmeat. I placed it on the floor and laid down on it, warm, dry, and well-fed. After Cyreg extinguished the lantern, the only thing visible in the room were the dimly glowing embers.

    I was almost unconscious when from the other side of the brazier came his voice:   

    “You asked why I don’t fear being outside after dark. Truth to be told, I don’t care anymore. I have lost all those I care about, and by now there is no-one they can harm to hurt me. I do little more than wait for my end, and in the meantime I might as well aid the Myreque. I don’t fear death,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself, “But if they ever try to take me to Meiyerditch…” his voice trailed off, and silence fell again.

    Within less than a minute, I was sound asleep.

    ****

    I woke up to being shaken by the shoulder, none too gently.

    “Get up, a voice said in my ear. Get up, it is almost dawn and you have to go before daybreak.” I sat up groggily, and tried to make sense of my surroundings. My host’s bed was made, and he was dressed to go outside. There was nothing but ashes left of the fire, but a faint light showed through the cracks in the shutters. Cyreg was packing a knapsack, taking tools from the walls and small wrapped packages from the shelves.

    Still half asleep, I pulled back on my nearly dry boots and tied on my cloak. I pulled the hood well over my head, picked up my staff and backpack, and followed Cyreg out of the warmth and safety of the house into the chilly, sunless morning. I walked in his steps until the spot at the riverbank where I had first seen him, and watched as he untied the rope holding the small, flat-bottomed boat. He drew it close to the bank, and motioned for me to step in. Once I was sitting securely on the bench, he began to hand me things. First a food package, accompanied with the advice that all the giant snails were edible as long as they were thoroughly cooked.  Next he retold his last night’s directions: I should row up the river until I came to the place where it circled right back around —there I should disembark, and tie the vessel between two tall boulders so he could find it. From there, I should head north until I found a large, deformed tree growing on a mound, which was the entrance to the caves known as the Hollows. Finally, right before he let go of the rope, Cyreg pushed into my hand a small object —a pouch of green silk, filled with twigs by the feel of it.

    “Keep that with you at all times, it will protect you in the swamp,” he said. I nodded and pocketed the object without questions. Then, as I pushed myself off the bank with the boathook, I heard him whisper his parting words: _“Goodbye, Mistress Westbrook. Myreque prevail.”_

    Then I was in open water, and at the first bend in the stream, the waving boatman disappeared behind the reeds.


	7. The River

    Compared to the walk from Canifis to Mort’ton, making journey on the river was light, safe and comfortable. The waterway was wide, the current was on my side, and I found the swamp boat relatively easy to control. The rowing kept me warm, and though the moisture soon began to seep through my clothes once more, my feet remained dry.

    The fog over the mire hung heavy as ever, and there was little to see. Dark water swirled around the oars as they hit the surface, and bulrushes built walls along the banks. Beyond them, I could sometimes glimpse other things. After the last house of Mort’ton disappeared, there was nothing for a while. Then the stream seemed to expand to the left, and in the middle of the wide water, I could make out the outline of an islet, and a small, dome-shaped building. Two human figures moved in the mist, apparently keeping guard, and I lay low inside the boat until I was well past their line of sight.

    Once past the isle, the river narrowed down once more, and the current seemed to pick up. A few feeble rays of the sun had found their way through the clouds, and as I struggled to keep the boat mid-stream, the warmth from the light made sweat run down my back. Apart from the splash of the oars and the constant chirping of the crickets there were few sounds. Lulled by the rhythm of rowing and isolated inside a blanket of thick, white vapour, the world around me seemed to fade away. As I pushed on, I soon came to feel that I was dreaming, and for a time the boat seemed to rise out of the water and glide on thin air, while the sunlight made the haze sparkle like a sea of crystals.

    In time I became aware of some strange, high structure rising on the eastern bank. It emerged from the fog as I drew closer, until soon I could see it in all its terrifying immensity: A series of immense towers of black stone, terraced and windowless, merged together at the base like a range of artificial mountains. There was something deeply disturbing about their shape and proportions, alien and inhuman as they were. A stone wall three storeys high separated the steep riverbank and the towers, and near the place where masonry met ground, a pair of pipes protruded from the stonework. From them came a steady trickle of murky water that landed in the stream, and I was careful to steer the boat around that unnatural little waterfall. I might have imagined it, but at the time I thought I could smell death.

    Though nothing moved on the battlements, I found myself rowing faster, wanting to get away from the fortress. As I worked the oars, Cyreg’s words replayed in my head: _“Castle Drakan…he rules from there, him and his kin.”_  Somewhere inside those walls were humans kept as cattle, as well as the cattle-keepers. Though I could not picture such a world no more than I could picture the beings who had created it, I wanted to be out of the shadow of the towers as soon as I could.  Only when the last corner of the wall had disappeared into the mist did I slow down, and finally relaxing, I drew in my oars. As the current took the boat, I decided to inspect the contents of Cyreg’s package.

   First off, there was a bundle of bark kindling, bone-dry and crumbling. Underneath, there were various foodstuffs wrapped in dried leaves, as strange in appearance as they were in taste. The first package scattered salt as I opened it, and revealed its contents as some fatty, smoked fish I suspected was a kind of eel, and of which I devoured a good part on the spot. The next one contained rings of some dried fruit that looked like apple but tasted more like pear, and I rewrapped it tightly after a bite, and finally, a small wad of sticky dried herbs for chewing. I broke of a piece, and relishing the way the bittersweet taste drowned out the stench of the swamp, I picked up the oars once more and rowed on.

    The sun beyond the clouds continued its descent towards the west, and nothing more of interest could be seen on either side. As visibility declined, I lit the small oil lantern on the boat’s prow, but its dim glow did little more than accentuate the darkness around me. Everywhere around me, tiny creatures croaked and chirped, and moths soon began to gather around the lantern. The temperature was dropping rapidly and I was busy trying to wrap my cloak on tighter when it happened: Right in the middle of the creek, I felt the keel catch on something, and the boat jerked to a halt. I was stuck on a snag, and though the vessel seemed undamaged, she showed no signs of dislodging on her own. Careful not to disturb the balance of the craft, I untied the lantern from the prow and moved to the stern. Shining the light over the water, I leaned over the side to inspect the situation. I could not see a thing, of course, and decided to proceed by feel.

    Placing the lantern on the bench, I picked up the boathook and shoved it in the water, feeling around for anything to push myself forward by. The current was stronger than I had thought, and though I held on fast with both hands, it almost tore the hook from me. I realized I had no idea how deep the river was, and for a moment I feared I might have to go in the water to get free. Then, as I moved the hook around the rear, it finally met something solid. Too soft for wood, the thing felt almost like a thick rope. It seemed to extend from the river bottom and disappeared under the boat. How I could be stuck on such a thing I could not imagine, but it felt as if I might be able to cut through it. I disliked the idea of contact with the black, swirling water, but seeing that there was no other option, I rolled up my sleeves and unsheathed my old dagger. I slid my hand through the loop on its handle, and reclining against the stern until I was almost lying down, reached into the water.

    The stream was as cold as I had feared, but my fingers soon found what they were looking for. What I had thought to be a rope felt both too smooth and soft to be one, and the thick layer of slime on its surface made it difficult to keep hold of. Gripping it the best I could I leaned further over the transom, pushed my knife-hand into the water as well, and thus precariously balanced I guided the blade to the thing and began to saw at it.

   At that point, two things occurred at once: First, the not-a-rope jerked in my hand as if it were alive, and second, another like it wrapped around my left wrist and pulled. The first tug almost sent me over the side, and panicking, I slashed at the water with my knife. The blade cut into something fleshy, and the hold around my wrist disappeared. At the same time I felt the boat break free with a shudder, and as the current took it once more, I struggled to sit up. In the light of the lantern I could see something huge and shapeless rise out of the wake, and disappear as it dived back into the deep to wait for easier prey.

    Shaking from the shock, I climbed back onto the bench, but could not find the strength to pick up the oars. As my heart slowly settled, I became aware of a stinging pain in my left wrist. Holding it up to the lantern, I found the skin to be covered in rows of tiny puncture wounds from which blood seeped profusely. I would have to do something to it, I knew, I could not risk an infection in this place. There was a small bag of bandages and salves at the bottom of my backpack, and as I dug around for it, I could feel blood drip down my fingers. Finally I located the kit, and in what little light there was began to sort out my medical supplies. I was slathering cadantine salve on the wrist, when an inhuman scream tore the night. As the echoes died down I realized with horror that the sound had come from above. Dropping the jar, I spun around to grab the lantern, and extinguished it as fast as I could. Darkness fell, and for a while the only sound in the night was my heart. Then a second scream echoed, now closer, and presently I picked up another sound —the sound of great, leathery wings that seemed to draw nearer with every beat. Barely daring to move, I picked up the paddle from the bottom of the boat, and trying to make as little sound as I could, steered towards a reed thicket on the west bank. I had no idea if I had been seen or heard, or if the thing could smell the blood from my wound.

    As the boat slid between the bulrushes, the invisible flier continued to circle above me. From time to time it let out high-pitched screeches, but made no move to descend. Lying as low as possible the thought occurred to me that the sounds might have been meant to flush its prey out of hiding and send it running across open ground. Praying to Guthix that I was right, I did the exact opposite and stayed as still as I could while my predator flew over the river unseen, sometimes higher, sometimes lower, gliding around soundlessly. Right when I feared that it knew where I was, my pursuer let out one last ear-splitting shriek, and swooping one more time near the surface like an osprey, it flew off to the direction of the Castle.

   Even after the last wingbeats had faded, I would not stir. I lay stock-still on the bottom boards, fearing that the smallest movement or sound might give me away. Water splashed against the sides rhythmically, and the boat rocked under me gently. Unable to think of even securing it, I waited and listened in the dark until sleep overtook me.


	8. The Hollows

    The first thing I became aware of was a faint light on my face. Reluctant to open my eyes, I remained motionless and listened to the wind in the reeds. I was stiff with cold once more, and every bone in my body hurt from sleeping on the hard wood. Eyes still closed, I darted out my tongue to lick dew from my upper lip. I wanted to sink back into unconsciousness, away from the pain and the promise of fear waiting at the edge of my mind.

    The longer I stayed still, the more clearly I became aware of yet another sensation: my left wrist stung and burned as if on fire, and no matter how I tried, I soon could no-longer ignore it. Grudgingly, I opened my eyes and saw above me the sky over Mort Myre. There was a suggestion of light from the east, but when I pushed myself to a half-sitting position and looked overboard, I found that beyond the thicket the world had dissolved into a white cloud. I sank back against the prow, devoid of the will and strength to move, and examined my injury.

    The wounds all over my wrist had stopped bleeding, but the slightest touch seemed to reopen them. In addition, there were inflamed red rings around each, and the skin in between felt hot to the touch. I had been applying wound salve, I remembered. After that I had been too frightened to move, and had ended up sleeping with the arm unbandaged. Apparently there had been some kind of anti-coagulant in the swamp creature’s teeth (Suckers? Spines?), but no venom. With the filthy water there was no need for such things.

    Lying there, I noticed the salve jar tipped on its side. I sat up enough to pick it up, and scrutinised what was left of its contents. It was not nearly sufficient, and it was all I had. I needed boiled water and alcohol to clean the wound out properly, and dry bandages to tie it with. Naturally, I had none of those things. There was little I could do except keep going, and hope I would not run a fever. Rummaging around my backpack with my good hand I located the food package. That, at least, was in order, if nothing else. I breakfasted on smoked fish and dried fruit, and after repacking everything carefully, I sat up shakily and climbed once more on the bench.

    As far as I could tell, I had not moved much during the night. Taking up the oars once more, I paddled my way out of the reeds, and the boat soon emerged in open water. By now there was enough light to see by, and as I stared into the mist, I caught the sight of something unexpected. Trees, right ahead. Cursing the ache in my shoulders with every stroke I rowed on, until I was sure I could not be mistaken. The river was turning left sharply, and shortly disappeared behind the bend. I began to scan around the banks, and none too soon I spotted it: At the water’s edge, directly on my course, was a pair of boulders standing some six feet apart.  I steered right between them until the prow hit the muddy bank, and with legs as weak as they were stiff, I climbed on shore.

    The landscape around me was familiar from the walk to Mort’ton, and it did not look any easier to traverse. With mud sucking at my boots with every step, I pulled the boat on shore and removed the plug from the bottom to allow rainwater to drain. Then I hacked off a few branches from nearby bushes to cover it with as Cyreg had instructed me, and once satisfied no passing glance could spot the craft, I resumed my burden and set towards the north.

    I did not end up having to walk for long. It was well before midday when I came to a creek running from east to west, no different from hundreds of others in the mire. There was one small alteration, however: across it lay a split log, and on the split log was visible a track of muddy footprints.  I crossed the stream in a few steps, and after pushing through the bushes on its bank, found myself in front of a small, round mound on which grew the most singularly deformed tree I had ever seen. Between two monstrous roots, almost hidden by the ferns around it, was an opening wide enough for a man to crawl through.

    I crouched down beside it and peered in, trying to make out the best way to proceed. There seemed to be a narrow tunnel leading down, the peat soon giving way to bedrock. It was too dark to see much, but I thought I could catch a sight of stairs.

     I never heard a thing. One moment I was squatting on the moss alone, and the next, a hand grabbed my hair and I could feel a blade press against my throat. My head was yanked back, leaving me face to upside down face with a thin, bald man with a commendable moustache and a slightly mad gleam in his eyes.

“Now, what do you think you’re doing here,” he growled, pressing his weapon against my jugular.

 “I am looking for those hidden in the Myre,” I whispered, trying to speak without moving a muscle. My captor’s expression did not change, but the hold of his fingers in my hair tightened.

“What do you want them for,” he asked, and again, and I wished the metal did not dig into my skin so much.

“In my backpack,” I said. “I was sent to bring them a package. Look yourself.” The man seemed to consider this for a while. Never taking the blade away from my throat, he pulled the backpack from my shoulders and threw it on the ground. Then he grabbed a hold of me again, this time at the base of my braid.

“You do it. No sudden movements.” I did not reply, but simply reached into the backpack. I drew out, very carefully, first my food package, then some clothes, and finally, the tightly bound bundle Vanstrom had given me. My fingers slipped as I untied the knots and unfolded the wrapping. On the open cloth lay two short swords and several knives, all in sheaths and smelling of oil. My captor said nothing for a while. Then, apparently reaching a conclusion, he waved his sword at the weapons.

“Repack it,” he said. I obeyed, and after I returned the bundle to my backpack, the blade left my throat long enough for the man to pick it up and swing it on his shoulder. Then he reached into my belt and took the dagger from it.

“You got any other weapons?”

“No.” I said.

“Who told you where to go?”

“Cyreg, in Mort’ton.”

“Did you come alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone follow you?”

“No.”

Finally, he let go of my hair, and as I turned around and got up, I saw the man with his sword in his hand again.

“You go first, stranger,” he said, nodding towards the opening. “Don’t try to run.”

And so, with an armed guard at my back I left the swamp, and we walked into the dark.

   
  
  



	9. The Myreque

 

    The cave was low and wide, and seemed to extend infinitely. At some point during the descent down the rough-hewn steps the guard had lit a torch, but its glow did not carry far. In the wavering light I could see dripstone columns along the walls, and openings leading into side passages between them. Water splashed under our feet and irritated bats rustled their wings in the stalactites, but otherwise the place was quiet as a tomb.

    After a walk of an indefinite length, the guard ordered me to halt in front of a group of stalagmites. Shining his torch on the wall, he indicated a narrow crevice, almost hidden behind the rock formation.

“There,” he said. “Enter”.

    I am a small woman, but I still had to crouch and walk sideways to push through the crack. Stone scraped at my shoulders, and for a second I thought I had been lead to a dead end. Then I somehow managed to turn my body the right way, and after a scraping push, I stumbled gracelessly into open space. When I straightened my back again, I saw that I was in a large, well-lit and clearly inhabited cave. A fire burned in a pit in the middle, and on the fire, a pot was boiling. Along the walls were stacked crates and barrels, and in one corner was a rudimentary table covered with books and tools. Across the cave ran a washing line, and on the line hung a prosaic arrangement of freshly laundered clothes. And from all around faces stared at me, frozen in surprise.

   For a moment, no-one moved. Then, I could hear the guard emerge from the crevice behind me, and his voice broke the spell.

   “Veliaf! Friends! I bring a visitor!”

    At these words, the man closest to me got up from his seat on a crate. Despite my difficulty with assessing Morytanians’ ages, I could tell his youth was long past him. He was a tall, wiry man with a swarthy complexion and sharp features, and a good amount of grey I his dark hair. A star of Saradomin was embroidered on the chest of his tunic, and on his belt hung a beautifully crafted sickle.

    “Curpile! A visitor, you say? Who is she, and what's her business?”

   “I found her poking about at the entrance, Veliaf,” said the guard. “She said she was sent to bring us weapons and has the goods to prove her word. See!” I heard clanking from behind me, and apparently the guard had uncovered my delivery, for Veliaf’s eyes widened, and more of the cave dwellers gathered around. One of them, a huge, scar-faced man, taller and healthier-looking than the others, crouched down to pick up a sword, and turned it around to inspect it.

   “That’s good steel, it is,” he said, “and not a thing to be scoffed at.” His accent was clearly western, and sounded more Asgarnian than anything else.

    “She’s a foreigner,” said Curpile the guard. “But she says old man Paddlehorn sent her this way.”

   “Cyreg?” said Veliaf. He seemed to contemplate the information for a while, and then looked up. “If he sent you, I’ll take it as a word in your favour.”

   “I came up here on his boat,” I managed to say. “He told me where to look.”

   “If he trusted you, so shall I. Well met, my name is Veliaf Hurtz, and I function as the leader of this chapter of the Myreque”. He proffered his hand, and while I shook it, the world around me seemed somehow unreal.

   “Aileen Westbrook,” I said. “I come from the lands west of the Salve, and I have been tasked with aiding you in your fight against Morytania’s rulers.”

   “And aided us you have, Mistress Westbrook,” he answered, having some difficulty with the first letter. “Pray, come and sit down, and I’ll introduce to the others that we can all hear your story.”

   I did, and soon found myself sitting on the floor beside the fire. Clockwise from me were Veliaf, and beside him a hefty young man almost equally dark, with a small plait at the back of his otherwise bald head. Parted from them by some barrels sat the huge man who sounded Asgarnian, and next to him, a very pale, very thin fellow in ragged green clothes. Lastly, on my right were the two clear juniors of the group —a small, black-haired girl who hugged her knees and kept glancing around, and next to her, a young boy wrapped in a red wool cloak. These were the people I had been sent to look for. I had braved the swamp and the river for them. I had fought a nameless horror in the water and hidden in the reeds for them. I had drawn in the hapless boatman for them. The Myreque.

   From the right, someone passed me a mug of herbal tea. The first gulp of it warmed my insides, and thus encouraged, I began to tell my story.

“…And I had just found the entrance at the mound when your guard here arrested me,” I concluded. I have no idea how long I spent telling the story. My audience had hung onto my every word, uttering gasps and swears when cued, and a few times using words I didn’t know. At some point, I had been given a piece of flatbread and then a bit of salted fish. Licking my fingers clean, I watched for my hosts’ reaction.  But before I could get one, something else happened. The girl jumped up, her face suddenly bloodless, and screamed:

“Vyre! Vampyre in the room!”

    Dropping the mug I had been cradling, I spun around to face the entrance to the cave. There, between us and the crack in the wall swirled a cloud of unnatural mist, and a familiar reek hung in the air. Then, from at all sides at once, a voice seemed to echo: “ _Thank you, Mistress Vestbrok,”_ What chilled the blood in my veins was not the disembodied speech, nor hearing the name few used, but the fact that I could easily recognize the voice. As I sat frozen and watched, the mist concentrated into a winged figure that somehow managed to be both humanoid and rodent-like, and yet in all respects wrong.

    The thing, all bent limbs and sharp claws, turned its face towards me. In the middle of the stretched, animalistic features two eyes burned like embers, and light glittered on a pair of fangs.

   _“On the behalf of Lord Drakan, I thank you for you co-operation. Now, human, farewell…”_

    The lights all flickered out, and from the dark on all sides rang terrible screams and the sounds of rending flesh.  Before I could react, something flashed in front of me, and I found myself sprawled on the floor with a weight on my chest and a hot, deathly breath on my face. Raising my arms instinctively, I felt something sharp tear at my skin, and blood rained on my face. Groping at the dark, my hands found something hot and sinuous and pulsating, and I pushed it away with all my strength, while kicking claws tore through my clothes and scratched at my chest. Then there was light, and on the ground next to me something glittering landed.  Grabbing it as fast as I could, I slashed at the air, and the thing in my hand made contact with the thing on my chest.

    There was a blood-curdling howl, and then a thrashing weight collapsing on my body, and then nothing.

***

    The darkness was all around me, and I did not want to leave it. It cradled me tightly, and while I did not move or open my eyes, I knew I’d be safe from all the world’s evil. But light scratched at the edge of my consciousness, light and the sounds of chatter, and at length I had no choice but to acknowledge them. I opened my eyes.

    Above me, blurred like a reflection in a swamp pond was the worried face of a pale man in green clothes. Around me, I was aware of other sensations — voices speaking, shadows moving about, and the smell of expired meat hanging in the air.

   After a while, I managed to make eye contact with the face above mine.  My mouth was dry and my tongue felt thick, but finally I managed to utter

    “What…what happened?”

    The world swam in and out of focus, and the answer echoed as if I were under water, and yet I understood its meaning perfectly.

   “Vanstrom. Vanstrom Klause. He works for the Drakan. He must have followed you here.”

   “I…” I said, unsure how to answer. “I didn’t know.” It was true. I had not known, but there again, I had not bothered to ask questions. And then the dark reclaimed me.

   ***

  Night. A feeling of floating. Then a pale light above the surface, luring me upwards. Air, filling my lungs as I gasped for breath.

    I was still in the cave. All was quiet around me once more, and though the smell of old meat lingered, I could sense no commotion. I was lying on my back on what felt like a bed of straw, and though I could scarcely move for the pain all over my body, I realized I was warm. My tunic was gone, but underneath the scratchy blanket my upper body was bandaged tightly, and the odour of cadantine filled my nostrils.

    I tried to speak, but only managed to let out a moan.  Then a hand appeared at the back of my head, and someone pressed a mug of water against my lips. I drank thirstily, and resting my head again, opened my eyes properly. There was someone sitting next to me, and when I managed to focus my gaze, I saw that it was the Asgarnian. He peered at me for a while, and then turned to shout something over his shoulder. Far behind him on the floor, I could see two figures covered by blankets like my own. From their stillness I could tell that the people underneath would never stir again.

    As I slowly came back to my senses, I saw that there were others sitting around me. Veliaf. The man in green. The guard. The boy. The first one spoke:

    “You are at the Hollows. It seems someone was trailing you, and followed you here — Vastrom Klause, the Vyrelord in charge of hunting us down. He’s gone now; I believe he thought that the creature he unleashed would finish us all. It did not, thanks to you, but before he left he killed Sani and Harold.”

    I did not answer. I counted mentally, and thought of the dark young man and the black-haired girl. I had not known their names.

    “I brought him here,” I said. “He’s the one who sent me. He gave me the weapons.” I wanted no mercy. I told no lies. For all I knew, Vanstrom had followed me all the way. I had seen a vampyre at the campsite, another at Mort’ton, and a third one on the river, and yet it had never occurred to me that all three might be the same.

    “He used you,” Veliaf answered at last. But you also killed his beast. I do not doubt your words, and I’ll not treat you as an enemy.”

     Though still barely conscious, I was aware of a general relaxation around me. I had been acquitted, if not absolved. Wordlessly, I nodded my thanks, and sunk back to sleep.

  
  



	10. Departure

    When I woke up for the third time I was as before, but the pain had subsided to a dull throbbing.

    Around me, I could sense people moving back and forth, and somewhere nearby nails were being hammered into wood. Blinking in the firelight, I could see the remaining members of the Myreque packing up their belongings. The washing line had disappeared, and bundles and knapsacks were piled near the exit. Veliaf and the Asgarnian were sitting near my bed, strapping on armour. The bodies were gone.

   Looking about, I saw some of my things folded neatly by the bed: my tunic and cloak, and my belt with its empty sheath. Beside them were my boots and backpack.  Sitting up sent a fresh flash of pain through my chest, but I forced myself to stay upright. While I dressed the others paid me no attention, and only when I had laced up my boots once more did Veliaf head over.

   “I see you are awake. Can you stand up? Can you walk? Good, because we are leaving. Even if Vanstrom believes us all to have been dealt with, it won’t be safe here anymore.” There was no reproach in his voice.

    “Where are you going,” I finally managed to ask.

    “To the swamp,” Veliaf answered matter-of-factly. “We will lie low and survive, and look for a new base somewhere further south.” As he spoke, he adjusted the belt over his armour and checked through the weapons on it. A sword, a sickle, a hunting knife. “If we are thought dead, it might buy us time and perhaps protect us for a while. We have been through this before, and we will be through it again before all this is over,” he said, visibly addressing his arsenal. “But please,” he continued, looking up “Get ready to leave, we intend to be out of here as fast as we can.” With those words, he turned around and left me where I was, heading over to negotiate something about the packing with the man in green.

    I bent down to roll up my blankets and shoved them in one of the sacks by the door. Then I helped the boy push most of them through the crevice and into the main cave, where we piled them up again on duckboards made of broken-up crates.  He did not speak as we worked, and though he kept his face down, I saw his eyes were rimmed with red.

    When I returned to the cave for one more time to pick up my own belongings, the man in green was busy pouring liquid all over the floor from a large earthenware jug. Having finished it, he tipped the contents of another one on a pile of firewood in the middle of the room. It seemed to consist of the hacked-up remains of crates and furniture deemed too heavy to bring along. As I moved closer, I could see something else: two long, thin forms wrapped in cloth, laid side by side. I forced them to think of them by their names.

    “I thought torching the place might cover our departure,” said the man in green, and I realized I did not know his. “And we might as well bury them while we’re at it.” I did not respond. I did not know what to say. Then I spotted something else near the wall: a similar bonfire, but smaller. I headed over, and peering into it, found myself looking at the thing that had attacked me. It was shaped like a large dog, but there the similarities ended. Its form was devoid of flesh, and only slimy, rotten hide stretched over the bones. The skull was nearly split open from the forehead, and the slack jaws revealed a mouth full of sharp teeth. The reek was sickening.

     “A skeletal hellhound,” said a small voice from my side. It was the boy. He had sidled up to me unnoticed, and was now standing beside me. “They drown dogs in the swamp and raise them once they’ve rotted. They’re used for tracking and catching people.” I wasn’t certain if I had heard him speak before.

    “And I killed it?”

    “Yes,” he answered, pointing at the head. “See the wound? You struck right into the brain.”

    “What did I use?” I asked, suddenly realizing I could not remember having a weapon.

    “Veliaf threw you his sickle,” the boy said. “Blessed silver. Nothing much else would have worked on a thing like that. But come, the others are ready to go.”

    I turned around to see that he was right. Only Veliaf and the man in green remained in the room. The latter had poured a trail of lamp oil from the bonfire to the door, and apparently satisfied with his work, now backed out through the crevice. Veliaf motioned for me to go next, and as I turned around to take a final look at the cave, the boy was standing by the bonfire. Before I stepped out to the corridor, the last thing I saw was the old warrior walking over to him and wrapping an arm around his shaking shoulders.

    In the long cave, the Myreque were quick to pick up their belongings, each throwing a backpack on their shoulders and carrying the rest in their hands. There was not much, but I could only imagine what walking through the mire with such burdens would be like. By the time Veliaf and the boy emerged from the crevice, the others were ready to go.

    “We part here, said Veliaf. “Before you go, you should have these back.” He handed me my dagger and staff, which I took with a nod of thanks. “We will head out to the Myre, and stay quiet for a while. For you, I recommend that you go north. If you follow the tunnel as far as it goes, you will come to a stone wall with a loose grate near the floor.  You can crawl through there to a basement with a ladder leading out. Once on the surface, you should be able to find your way back to Paterdomus.”

    “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“Not at the moment,” he answered. “But in the future perhaps. We could always use another contact on the other side of the Salve, and you seem capable.” It was a lot coming from a man whose friends my actions had killed. “We have a few reliable supporters in Canifis who can in turn relay messages to Drezel. Should the time come that we need your services, we will send him a message.” I nodded again, and he extended his arm again: “Farewell, Aileen Westbrook.” I shook his hand, and then those of the rest of the group.

“Polmafi Ferdygris,” said the man in green.

“Curpile Fyod.” The guard.

“Radigad Ponfit.” The Asgarnian.

“Ivan Strom.” The boy. His voice was steady again, and he looked me in the eye as he introduced himself.

“Now, until we meet again…” said Veliaf, and as the backs of the others disappeared in the dark, he bent down to chuck his torch into the crevice. As he ran after the others and I turned towards north, I heard the words _“Myreque prevail.”_

    Then a loud whooshing sound told me that the flame had reached the oil-soaked pyre, and as I set on my way once more, I could hear distant crackling as they consumed the bodies of Sani and Harold and the place that had been their home.

***

   During the walk through the rest of the cave I felt perfectly empty. I hardly noticed the rock formations my torch showed or the lingering smell of smoke. I did not stop once, and only kept pushing on with just enough presence of mind to avoid the deepest puddles on the floor. When the tunnel ended in a mildewed stone wall, I did not wonder who had built it.

    I located the grate easily, and managed to shake it loose with a few tries. Crawling through, I emerged in a large, somewhat damp cellar. The walls were lined with dusty ale barrels, and in the middle were piled what looked like unused tables. Roots hung from the ceiling and moisture ran in tracks down the walls. Whoever owned the place probably did not come down there a lot, or care much what shape it was in. Nevertheless, I tried to make as little noise as I could when I climbed up the rickety wooden stairs to the trapdoor. No light shone at the cracks, and though I listened a good while, I could hear nothing moving above. Ever so carefully, I pushed up a fraction and peeked out. Mud. Moss. Ferns. And on one side, the stilts of a wooden house. I was back in Canifis.

 


	11. Paterdomus Again

    Having ascertained that there was no-one around I climbed out, letting the trapdoor fall shut behind me. It was night-time, but the moon beyond the clouds gave enough light to see by. I had come out of the ground on a narrow slice of land between a large, two-storey house and a brown-watered pond beyond which I could see the fens stretch to infinity. From the house I could hear the murmur of distant chatter, and unbelievable as it felt, I realized I was looking at the back wall of the Hair of the Dog Tavern.

    For a moment, it all felt like a very sick joke. I had been sent first all the way across the Myre, then halfway back, and finally returned to sender. And yet, it was no joke. Two people were dead, and the rest were somewhere in the swamp, homeless. I did not know what would become of them, or poor Cyreg in Mort’ton. I thought back on the night I had spent at his house, and suddenly realized that he’d now be a proven collaborator. And there was no way I could help him, no more than I could do for the Myreque.

    I stayed still a while, staring into the accursed mist over Mort Myre, and felt sick to my heart. Then, because there was nothing else to do, I pulled on the hood of my cloak, and careful to stay out of light, I started the journey back to Paterdomus.

   The woods west of Canifis were peaceful and easy to navigate. Though I paid little mind to my surroundings, I could not help but think that the feeling of being watched was gone and wondered vaguely how much of it had ever been real. If so, had I been spotted right as I left the temple? Had I been followed on that initial journey, and had someone alerted Vanstrom to the presence of a foreigner at the inn? I had no way of knowing, and could not think for my shame of having so underestimated the horrors of Morytania, and for overestimating my own abilities as a spy.

    In time, I became aware of first the rush of the river, and then the light of a fire in the dark. It got closer, until finally, after one last bend in the barely-there path I was out of the woods and standing on the east bank of the Salve. On the bridge leading to the trapdoor, haloed by the torch behind him, stood a monk of Saradomin I did not recognize. On the belt of his robes hung a silver sickle like the one Veliaf had carried, and as he looked around, he kept unconsciously touching its handle. When he noticed me, he drew it with one hand and the torch from its holder with the other.

    “Halt!” He cried out, and I could hear the fear in his voice. “Who goes there?”

    Afraid of being noticed, I had discarded my own torch as I left the cellar. I must have been quite a sight to him as I appeared from the woods, cloaked and hooded in black, boots and trousers caked with mud, leaning on my staff more and more with every step.

    I stopped where I was, and pushed back my cowl. “Greetings, brother,” I called out. “My name is Aileen Westbrook, and I seek passage back to Misthalin.”

    At my words, relief spread over his face.  “You are Aileen? Thank Saradomin, you are alive! Pray, come in, child, Drezel was almost ready to pronounce you dead. Come over, come in!”

    I walked the last few steps over the blessed river with feet as heavy as lead. The monk opened the trapdoor for me, and locked it again after us once we were both down. I followed him through the crypt, up a flight of stairs, out of the door, and we were in Misthalin.

***

    There had been a lot of greetings, reunions and blessings. Drezel had sent a missive to my dispatcher in Varrock, and had instantly received a request that I deliver my own report at the first opportunity. After a bout of very quick and assertive correspondence during which small sealed scrolls appeared and disappeared in flashes of light on his desk, he informed me that he had managed to persuade my employer —the spymaster at the Varrock Palace —that my statement could wait at least until morning.

    An hour later, after I had washed with warm water as well as I could while avoiding wetting all my bandages, I sat down at the table in Drezel’s quarters. He had given me an old nightshirt of his own to wear, and I relished the feeling of being in warm, dry clothes. In time, I had a bowl of hot stew placed in front of me, and I don’t think I have ever savoured a meal so.

    As I ate, we were shortly joined by others. The grey-haired monk who had waited at the bridge; another, younger one with a bald head and a tremendously long beard, and a fourth man, an ancient sage in the robes of a Guthixian druid. They introduced themselves as they sat, and from what was said I understood that they had been sent to act as auxiliary staff at the temple, which was now deemed too dangerous to be guarded by a single man. There had been an almighty scene over the border breach, and additional security measures were being devised in Varrock as we spoke. Soon they apparently resumed another conversation from before, all speaking rapidly and largely over each other. There was talk of spies and guards, werewolves and vampyres, ghasts, and necromancers. Unable to comprehend much of it, I took in my surroundings. The worst of the mess left by the Zamorakians had been cleared, and though boards remained over some of the windows and statues were missing from their plinths, the temple looked liveable again. I did not enquire whether there still was a vampyre in the coffin in the attic, mostly because I didn’t want to know.

    My report could wait until morning, and it had been agreed, so could telling my story to the others. Unnoticed, I got up, and with the hem of the overlong nightgown trailing behind me, I headed to the make-shift bed Drezel had devised me in the corner of his study.

    Clumsily, trying to ignore the thrumming pain in my wounds, I slipped under the blankets. In my ears, the talk from the next room was already blurring into a susurrus. There would be time enough for everything tomorrow, but for now, I could only think of one thing. Trying to find a comfortable position, I saw the light catch on my wedding ring. Holding my hand up, I twisted it round and round the finger, and through the numbness, an older pain stung. Then I slipped the hand under the cover, and curling up tightly, I let my eyes shut. Before a minute had passed, I was asleep.

  
  
  



	12. Epilogue

     _From the Diary of Aileen Westbrook_

    Year 161, 5th Age.

    Mrs Whitby’s Lodging House, Varrock, Misthalin

    Yesterday, after three weeks of slow healing, I removed the bandages from my chest and wrist for the last time.

    The injuries have not healed neatly, and despite my diligent applying of cadantine salve it seems I’ll be sporting some new scars.

    Having recovered sufficiently at Paterdomus, I returned to Varrock. My old garret room at Mrs Whitby’s was free, and I have been here ever since, living on full board and going nowhere too far. After I gave my report at the Palace, the spymaster granted me a hefty bonus out of the crown coffers, a good part of which is now long spent on medicine and rent.

    Soon I’ll have no choice but to go and work for Aubury again. In a way, I look forward to it.

       I have lit both my candles and the oil lantern, but the room still feels too dark as the night falls. Regardless of if I sleep with the window open or shut, I know I’ll wake up at least once to the sound of flapping wings, or the smell of the marsh.

    Tonight I’ll take sleeping draught for the last time, and tomorrow I’ll be fine. I can feel it.

    Somewhere beneath my window, the slum children of south-east Varrock scream. There are so terribly many of them, and living as they do in such poky rooms they have no choice but to lead their lives in the street. A quarrel has broken over one of their games, and I can see an older girl try and break up a fight between two small boys. I don’t know what it’s all for; it’s some kind of a circling play where one chases another who chases a third who chases the first. Try as the big sister might, more from both sides join in, and soon the whole street corner is full of squabbling kids waging war against one another.

    I should go and stay somewhere quiet for a while. The summer is reaching its crest, and I long to be out of Varrock’s noise and heat. I should go to Lumbridge and see how they are for rune-runners at the tower. The climate is better and the living cheap, and Sedridor would let me make use of the library.

 

    But whether I admit it to myself or not, I know that what has kept me from leaving are not my injuries, nor a desire to return to my old job. I have stayed because I keep expecting a message from Drezel. As much as the thought of returning to Morytania terrifies me, I have a score to settle and a promise to keep.

    I have run away from responsibility once too many times, and the guilt and the shame that I carry for those choices will follow me to the grave. As I sit here and write, I try and assess whether my longing for deliverance has more to do with myself or those I claim to seek to help.

    It doesn’t matter for them. It only matters that I do what needs to be done when it needs to be done, and that’s why I remain here. When the call comes, I shall go back.

   


End file.
